


Shake the Skies With Thunder

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Politics, Psychological Trauma, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Spirit Swords, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-21 03:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15548766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Every Sword-Saint had to leave Hammerfell once they learned the Spirit Sword technique in order to hone themselves to a greater edge. Cirroc chose Skyrim as his destination because his father was heading there, someone had his father's fabled bladed spear, and there were rumours of a sister in Riften. He had no idea of the divine horse-trading that led to his presence in the northern province or the destiny that awaited him.Korli Clever-Hands never expected to be a Jarl of anywhere, let alone Riften. She, Balgruuf and Idgrod Ravencrone have their hands full with trying to stop the civil war, but Egil Ulfricsson and Elisif the Fair aren't having any of that. She'll be mending more than civil strife before the fight is done.As above, so below. Alduin's return spells the end of the world... and opportunity for those who dare.The war will shake the skies with thunder.





	1. Prologue: Mother and Son

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, sex work, torture, child abuse, child abandonment, child neglect and child death. Here it is, the next instalment in the Tales of the Aurelii!

 

It was strange how the quest for power had transformed into one of enlightenment.

            Arngeir wasn’t a young man and hadn’t been one for over a hundred and fifty years. Before he’d been a Greybeard, he’d been one of the most powerful mages of the Synod that he helped found, and before that he’d been a son burdened with the knowledge of his secret bloodline. He hadn’t come to High Hrothgar in search of peace and communion with the sky. No, he’d climbed the Seven Thousand Steps to regain the power of his ancient forebear, to reshape reality with a guttural language known only to few.

            What he found instead was fulfilment and an understanding of his destiny in Akatosh’s grand scheme. Not for him an ancient throne in the southern provinces.

            Now he sat on a sun-warmed boulder in the courtyard of High Hrothgar, Paarthurnax curled around him thoughtfully against the chill. “STRUN!” Arngeir Shouted, bringing forth the crashing thunder and white-blue lightning of Kyne’s storms to the Throat of the World.

            Storm-scrying was a difficult art, for it relied more on Kyne’s goodwill than any skill of the mage. The clouds boiled black and grey overheard and the Master of the Greybeards spoke ancient prayers to the Mother of Men. Skyrim was in chaos and Paarthurnax scented his fallen brother on the wing. Soon, it would be soon, and sooner than he liked.

            Shapes formed in the clouds, monochrome images of half-familiar faces. One grandson was dead and gone to the Void after a terrible vengeance while the other lived surrounded by werewolves. A great-grandson rode towards Skyrim, heedless of the fate that awaited him once he crossed the Druadachs, and a great-granddaughter placed a silver circlet on her head in the Rift. Even great-great-grandchildren were visible, babes in arms with the potential to shake the world to its foundations if their bloodlines ever became known.

            The storm died away and so did the images. Arngeir closed his eyes against the sudden return of sunlight and sighed.

            “Akatosh isn’t subtle, is He?”

            Most only ever heard the rough growl of a woman who’d screamed so much that her voice was left permanently hoarse but Arngeir listened with more than ears. Paarthurnax lifted his worn grey head with alarm, Fire Breath forming on his tongue until the Greybeard waved the dragon down. “She’s not our enemy,” he assured him.

            “She is ni ro,” Paarthurnax growled. “Not balanced.”

            “I’m a Daedric Prince. Well, part of one. Most of the power went with Jyggalag when he fucked off after the Greymarch,” said the lantern-jawed Nord with a severe underbite who strolled into view. She was almost grotesquely muscular, her olive-bronze limbs left bare by her archaic gold-trimmed white armour, and her iron-grey hair was cropped close to the scalp. “So yes, I’m not balanced because I technically don’t belong here. You’re not going to believe the promises I made Kynareth to stop by and have a chat with you two.”

            Arngeir met her febrile green gaze. Even before her… ascension, her gaze had been wild, possibly mad. Some would call her insane even now but Arngeir understood it was because they couldn’t understand the worldview of the Madgoddess. To her, all times were impossibly jumbled, and the rage of a thwarted queen hardened her swollen callused fists. “We know Alduin World-Eater is on the wing.”

            “Of course you do. Sigdrifa’s boy went berserk and ran Torygg through at the Moot because the young Mede girl decided to keep a bargain she’d made.” Aurelia Northstar shook her head with a sigh. “As I said, Akatosh isn’t subtle.”

            “The Krisfahliil make subtlety difficult,” Paarthurnax rumbled.

            “You’ll get no arguments from me,” the Madgoddess agreed wryly. “Time’s running short. Gods of man, mer, cat and lizard see it coming and are warning their priests. There’s going to be war in heaven and hell as well as on earth and the one who’s supposed to save Nirn might just kill it instead.”

            “Are you saying that the time for a new kalpa has come?” the dragon asked.

            “I don’t know. We’re gonna have two aspects of Akatosh duke it out while Meridia and Herma-Mora stick their noses where they’re not welcome. That’s on top of the Redguard gods getting involved because the Dragonborn technically belongs to them.” Aurelia’s smile was thin. “If it’s the end of the world, it will certainly be an interesting last few days on Nirn.”

            “What do you want me to do about it?” Arngeir asked carefully. Wulfgar could run High Hrothgar if he needed to go back to the lowlands but-

            “Try to hammer some of that temperance and discipline of your Way of the Voice into him,” the Madgoddess advised. “Paarthurnax… Your life or death will be the crux of it. Cirroc’s young, he’s idealistic and he’s kind of sheltered. If Delphine and her merry band of idiots convince him to be the next Tiber fucking Septim, we’re all in trouble.”

            Arngeir winced. Arius had led the Blades down a dark road and it appeared not all had been slain by the Thalmor.

            “You’re not alone, my boy,” Aurelia said gently. “Nocturnal, Hircine, Azura and Sanguine are lending a hand. I’m pretty sure the Aedra are martialling assistance too.”

            “There is a Jill in Skyrim,” Paarthurnax said quietly. “No matter how many threads Sah-Rok cuts, Koor-Lah-Naar will mend.”

            “Can you translate that?” Aurelia asked.

            “Sah-Rok means… illusion and ‘rok’ is a pronoun dragons use for themselves,” Arngeir said carefully. “Koor-Lah-Naar literally means ‘summer-magicka-peak’.”

            “Okay,” she said slowly. “Now what the fuck is a Jill?”

            “A she-dragon who mends temporal distortions – I think. It’s a hard concept to explain,” Arngeir replied. “They drive events by their existence.”

            “Not all Jills are female,” Paarthurnax chided. “Teyfunvahzah, my Jill, is male.”

            “You creatures are strange,” she said, shaking her head. Then she looked directly into the time-wound. “You two better get inside. Things are about to get fun around here.”

            “Mother-“ Arngeir begun.

            “You heard me, Julius Martin Septim Aurelius. Get your arse inside and take Paarthurnax with you – now!”

            Helplessly, he obeyed, Paarthurnax opening the double-hinged doors with a Shout. They barely got inside in time as a black-winged, red-eyed dragon arrived. _ALDUIN!_

The son of the Hero of Kvatch and the last Septim Emperor slammed the doors on annihilation and his mother. Gods have mercy on Skyrim. Gods have mercy on them all.


	2. Saint of the Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for graphic violence.

 

“Hey, you’re finally awake!”

            Cirroc cracked open his eyes to regard the Nord sitting across from him in the wagon balefully. “Did you just notice? Send word to the priests so they can name you the Avatar of stating the fucking obvious.”

            His head still ached from the blow that knocked him unconscious but otherwise, he was hale.

            “The only priests we’re likely to meet will be giving us last rites,” the blond Nord said with a sigh as the wagon trundled towards some small border town. “What’s an Avatar?”

            “Your word for it is Saint. In my language, Saint means something else.” He tested the rawhide bonds tying his wrists together and swore vilely when they wouldn’t break. “So who are you, where am I and why are these noodle-spined Imperials dragging innocent people off to execution?”

            “I’m Ralof. The guy next to me’s some kind of horse-thief and the one next to you is Jarl Egil Dawnbringer of Windhelm,” the blond answered with a wry smile. “I see the Alik’r hold the Empire in the same high regard we Stormcloaks do.”

            “I’m a Sword-Saint,” Cirroc corrected absently. “Stormcloak? Name’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”

            “My father, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, was the founder of our cause,” rumbled Egil, who was probably around Cirroc’s age but had the eyes of a much older man. “He was murdered by the Forsworn at the behest of the Empire, who promised them free reign in the Reach.”

            “That explains why you’re here, but why am I here?” Cirroc asked.

            “They enacted a carnificina. You and the horse-thief were unlucky enough to get caught in it.” Ralof hawked and spat. “Damn faithless nithing Imperial dogs!”

            “Shut up back there!” yelled the wagon driver.

            “Or what, you’ll execute us?” Egil asked mockingly. “In your language, Imperial, va’funcula.”

            “I’m guessing me being the son of the Lady of Elinhir means jack shit to these people?” Cirroc asked quietly.

            Ralof barked in laughter. “You’re Rustem’s get, right?”

            “Ye-es.” What had his father done now? He’d disappeared about a year ago and only HoonDing knew where he was.

            “They’ll execute you all the more quicker,” Ralof said with a twisted smile. “Your father cut his own brother’s hand off, then shoved the Daedric sword Goldbrand down Titus Mede’s throat, because he joined the Dark Brotherhood. Rumour is he died in Hammerfell somewhere.”

            Cirroc stared at him slack-jawed for a moment before collecting himself. Ralof’s words had the ring of truth to them, delivered as they were with relish. Not to discomfort Cirroc, but in pleasure at Titus Mede’s end.

            “He disappeared about a year ago,” Cirroc said slowly. “You mean to tell me…?”

            “To the best of my knowledge, Rustem Aurelius had a direct or indirect hand in the deaths of Titus Mede, Noctis Mede, Gaius Maro the Younger, High King Istlod and my mother Sigdrifa Stormsword,” Egil said grimly. “Then there’s the aftershocks that led to the deaths of my father, his huscarl, High King Torygg, Jarl Laila Law-Giver and Jarl Siddgeir. And now mine and yours. If you meet him in the afterlife, tell him Egil Dawnbringer curses him and the foul darkness he served.”

            “Fucking hell,” Cirroc said fervently.

            Egil sighed. “I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this, Cirroc. If it’s any consolation, you have a sister who is now Jarl of the Rift. She’s a good woman, I think.”

            “I just came to Skyrim to retrieve my father’s naginata,” Cirroc said bewilderedly. “It’s in Windhelm.”

            “In my mother’s study, actually,” Egil said with another sigh. “She… Well. I can’t say she was a good person who didn’t deserve her end. But she was my mother, just as Rustem was your father. Let us not go to death as enemies.”

            “I don’t hold you responsible,” Cirroc said quietly. “I… knew my father had plans. But we thought he’d relinquished the desire for vengeance against the Medes long ago.”

            “Apparently not.” Egil smiled wryly. “I understand certitude, justice and vengeance. But Rustem deliberately caused as much damage to Imperial and Stormcloak as he could. I’m fairly sure the collateral damage was several dozen.”

            Cirroc sighed. “I’m sorry.”

            “As am I.” They rolled under the gates of the town and the Imperial officer rode forth to speak to some Thalmor. “There he is, the great General Tullius, running to his elven mistress like a good little dog.”

            “She’s probably here to make sure the last Talos worshippers are dead,” Cirroc observed. “Hey Thalmor! You’re the product of cousin marriage since the Merethic Era!”

            Given he said it in Aldmeri, he could see the woman’s gaze grow harder. Egil grinned broadly and added a suggestion for a biologically improbable sex act involving kitchen implements, a Khajiit and Bosmer twins in the same language. “My brother Bjarni taught me that one,” he admitted.

            Cirroc coughed. “Your brother has quite the imagination.”

            “You should hear him in Dragonish. Father damn near had a heart attack when he heard him.” Egil sighed and his shoulders slumped. “On this day we go to Sovngarde.”

            “Ysgramor himself will welcome us,” Ralof assured the younger man.

            “But not Father. The Forsworn saw to that.”

            “Alright, get out of the wagon!” snapped an Imperial woman in Tribune armour. One by one, everyone got out, and were lined up so some plain-faced, heavy-shouldered Nord could take their names.

            “Nice tunic, Hadvar,” taunted Ralof. “Was it worth the arse-kissing?”

            “Shut up, Ralof,” Hadvar said pleasantly. “Who’s the Redguard?”

            “Cirroc,” said the Sword-Saint shortly.

            “What’s your place of origin? I’ll see your remains returned.”

            “Why bother? You’re executing me without warrant or trial because all that remains to the Empire is brutality.” Cirroc spat at his feet. “Send my head to the Masters at the Sanctuary of the Sword and tell them you executed one of three living Sword-Saints, you inbred son of a jackal and a Sload.”

            “I don’t know if Redguards go to Sovngarde, but if you do, I’ll raise a mug in your name,” Ralof said with a grin.

            “Lovely,” Hadvar said in the same pleasant tone. “I’ll send your body to Elinhir and let them sort it out.”

            They were quickly divided into two lines and a Priestess of Arkay came out to give last rites. A Stormcloak came forth, told her to shut up in the name of Talos, and took himself to the block with commendable courage and a final taunt to the executioner. “Next, the mouthy Redguard!” ordered the Tribune.

            “Nice and easy, Cirroc,” Hadvar said.

            “Go fuck yourself.” Cirroc dove to the ground as Hadvar went to grab him, rolling to his feet behind the Imperial. While a Sword-Saint was trained in swordsmanship, they were also taught extensive calisthenics, and Cirroc bolted past the archers for the gate.

            “Somebody catch that little bastard!” Tullius ordered somewhere behind them.

            “Archers!” yelled the Tribune.

            The archers never fired, because something big and black landed on the Keep’s roof, bring forth fire with three words that somehow resonated in the depths of Cirroc’s being. This thing wanted him dead.

            He slammed into the gate with his shoulder, opening it because it was unlatched, and he ran down the road. He needed a rock with a sharp edge to slice the rawhide thongs off. Then he could go back and kill that thing with his spirit sword.

            Cirroc was sawing his tied hands against a jagged piece of slate when Ralof and Egil caught up to him. “Did you see that?” the blond demanded. “That was a dragon!”

            “I know. Untie my hands and I’ll go back to kill it with my spirit sword. It can cut through nearly anything.”

            Egil used a knife to slice the thongs. “It was in the process of demolishing Helgen. And I fear that’s no ordinary dragon. That is the World-Eater.”

            “So what, it’s the end times?” Ralof asked, aghast.

            “No. The Dragonborn was also promised.” Egil shrugged as Cirroc rubbed his scraped wrists. “There’s a back door to the Keep. We should try and rescue the other Stormcloaks.”

            “I’ll lend you a hand,” Cirroc said. “I’m beginning to understand why everyone hates the Empire.”

            Egil grinned at him.

            The back door was a bear cave. The bear didn’t present much of a problem to three trained fighters, and they went up towards the dungeons past the spider cave, where Stormcloaks were fighting valiantly against their torturers. “Jarl Egil!” one of them yelled. “Dawnbreaker’s in the satchel over there.”

            The Jarl extended his hand and a sword with a blade all the colours of the dawn and a blazing white-gold jewel in its quillions flew to his fingers. Then it became a rout as he finished off the torturers with three strikes. His technique was basic but solid.

            “There’s no one else,” reported a female Stormcloak. “I think Hadvar and Tullius are coming this way. The dragon’s tearing Helgen apart.”

            “Let the World-Eater devour the Imperials,” Egil said harshly. “We will fall back and regroup at Falkreath camp.”

            “Yes, my Jarl,” the woman said.

            Egil waited until everyone was in the corridor before he cut through two of the support pillars with Dawnbreaker, then yanked the roof down with a flex of Telekinesis. The entrance to the torture chamber was blocked from the other side. “Let’s go,” he said.

            “I didn’t know you’d been studying Alteration,” Ralof said as they headed back into the caves.

            “The Forsworn fight with magic and the Empire has battlemages. It behoves us to have ways of countering it.” Egil wiped off Dawnbreaker and sheathed the sword in his belt.

            “Nice sword,” Cirroc told him.

            “It is the blade of Meridia,” the Jarl replied. “I’m her current Champion.”

            “There are worse Daedra, I suppose.” Cirroc sighed. “My father apparently served one.”

            “After today, I’m not going to blame you for your father’s actions,” Egil told him. “Come to Windhelm with us and I’ll give you your father’s weapon.”

            “If half of what you say is true, I’m not sure if I want it,” Cirroc said bitterly.

            “That’s understandable. The offer’s open though.” Egil led them to the bear cave. “If nothing else, maybe your experience here today will persuade our sister to join the Stormcloak cause. She, Balgruuf and Idgrod are trying to maintain neutrality, as if Skyrim’s soul isn’t at stake.”

            “Her husband’s a Reachman,” Ralof said quietly. “One who had a legitimate grudge against your father.”

            “I know my parents committed atrocities in Markarth,” Egil said over his shoulder. “I just cannot abide the deliberate damnation of their souls. Mother was given the sea-death and Father was soul trapped.”

            “Mowhra’s four arms,” Cirroc breathed. “It’s one thing to kill an enemy…”

            “And another to soul trap. They murdered and soul trapped my grandfather Dengeir too. One of the Hagravens claims to be my grandmother.” Egil’s fist tightened on Dawnbreaker’s hilt.

            “Nice to see I’m not the only one with embarrassing relatives,” Cirroc said with a hint of hysteria.

            Egil stared at him before bursting into laughter.

            They emerged in time to see the black dragon flying northwest. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Ralof said dryly. “He might have acquired a taste for Imperials and is going to Solitude to indulge it.”

            The survivors laughed.

            “I wouldn’t count on it,” Egil said grimly before turning to Cirroc. “I need to ask you a favour.”

            “What is it?” Cirroc asked slowly.

            “Go to Balgruuf and tell him what happened here today. None of us would be welcome in Whiterun whereas you’d be just another Redguard mercenary.”

            “I’m not, but I get your point.” Cirroc looked up at the sky. “Sura-HoonDing killed a dragon that served your Talos. Maybe I’ll do one better and kill the World-Eater.”

            “Unless you’re the Dragonborn, you don’t have a hope in Oblivion.”

            “Never say never, Egil. Never say never.”


	3. At the Court of the Jarl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“We’ve found nothing on the source of the Frenzy spell that hit Egil at the Moot,” Karliah reported in her slumberous contralto. “It could have even been a needle dipped in berserker poison, for all we know.”

            Korli nodded and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I appreciate you looking into it, Karliah. I don’t know how long we can keep the hostility to acceptable limits. Sooner or later, something’s going to break and there will be war in the Rift.”

            “Civil war is never pretty. Egil’s holding his hand because he’s a traditionalist Nord and you are his sister. If you side with the Empire…”

            “All bets are off.” Korli rose from the Aspen Throne and removed her silver circlet. Even enchanted as it was to sweeten her tongue, the chill metal was uncomfortable to wear for long periods of time. “I do what’s best for the Rift, not my family. That’s more of a Nord tradition than Talos worship.”

            The violet-eyed Dunmer smiled thinly. “You and the Stormcloaks have differing ideas of tradition, Korli.”

            “That’s because she doesn’t have her head up her arse, lass,” Brynjolf remarked as he entered the great hall of Mistveil Keep. “Go get some rest, Karliah. I’ll handle things from here.”

            “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” she asked amusedly. “Goodnight, you two.”

            She was gone before Korli spoke. “How’s business in the Guild?”

            “Good. Uncertainty drives prices up and we’ve cornered the market on most luxuries in the Old Holds.” Brynjolf strolled gracefully alongside the tables. His allegiance was an open secret in the court but, much to her surprise, most of the courtiers took it well. Perhaps because Brynjolf shared any intelligence pertaining to the Rift’s security freely.

            Only Mjoll the Lioness and her friend Aerin were unhappy about Brynjolf’s position in the court but Korli made it clear to the two that while she respected them, she was _not_ going to divorce him. Then, to balance out the schemers, she appointed Mjoll as the Rift’s warleader.

            “Egil’s court is fairly ascetic,” she pointed out.

            “That it is but the people of Eastmarch are fond of their little Dunmer spices and Cyrod wines,” Brynjolf said mildly. “If we cut off the flow of trade, Eastmarch will be reduced to lutefisk and charred venison within weeks.”

            “If Balgruuf and I did a joint blockade, they’d be facing starvation within weeks,” Korli agreed grimly. “Any word on my proposal for a joint negotiation?”

            “No, lass. Tullius is apparently planning some big action that may technically violate the Rift’s borders. If he pulls it off, I wouldn’t make a big deal about it. That brother of yours is as bad as his parents put together.” Brynjolf smiled slightly. “I think you got lucky being abandoned, lass.”

            “Maybe.” Korli turned towards the Jarl’s quarters. “Let’s make an early evening of-“

            Mjoll slammed the doors of the great hall open. “My Jarl!” the Lioness yelled. “There’s a dragon in the sky.”

            “A _what_ , lass? Have you gotten a knock to the head?” Brynjolf asked in amused scorn.

            “I know what I saw, Thief,” Mjoll spat.

            “You’re certain it’s a dragon?” Korli asked, turning back to Mjoll. She’d been warned by Catriona this was coming, but how do you prepare your people for the fulfilment of a prophecy?

            “Yes, my Jarl. Bat wings, long snaky neck, breathes fire. It was attacking Largashbur this morning. I checked to make sure everyone was alright before coming here. They lost their Chief and most of the menfolk. I brought the women and children here.”

            Korli nodded. “Good work. Have the healers check them out and then find shelter for them.”

            “I left them with Maramal,” Mjoll replied. “What are we going to do about the dragon?”

            “Watch it. See if you can coordinate with Isran’s people. For the love of Kyne, _don’t_ provoke it.” Korli regarded Mjoll grimly. “Unless you’re the Dragonborn, the best we’d be able to do is kill it temporarily, hack it to pieces and scatter them from here to the Velothi Mountains. I won’t throw away lives uselessly.”

            “You don’t seem particularly surprised,” the Lioness noted.

            “My grandmother, the Hagraven, warned me danger was coming,” Korli said carefully. “It wasn’t like I could warn you about dragons without sounding like a crazy Ratways-dweller, could I?”

            “No, but your stockpiling of essentials and the census of the folk makes sense now,” Mjoll said.

            “Yes. I need to know if dragons or other things are snacking on my people.” Korli sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose again.

            “Speaking of crazy and dragons, there’s a lad in the Vaults who might know a thing or two,” Brynjolf noted. “Old Esbern has been babbling about dragons for years.”

            “Esbern?” Korli lifted her eyes to him. “Blue eyes, kind of deep plummy voice?”

            “Aye.”

            “He was a Blades loremaster who specialised in dragons. Get his arse up here _now_. Fuck the Thalmor. They’re less of a threat than the dragons.”

            Brynjolf’s eyes widened before he nodded and took off at a run.

            “The Thieves are useful for something,” Mjoll said dryly.

            “They’re useful for a lot of things,” Korli told her bluntly. “I know you don’t like it, but the Guild’s a major force in the economy between here and Windhelm. Even taking my marriage to Brynjolf out of the equation, removing them would tank the Rift’s finances in a year.”

            “They’re better than they were under Frey,” Mjoll conceded reluctantly. “You’re much better than Maven or Laila.”

            “That’s because I try to think of everyone, not myself. Go get Ingun Black-Briar. If anyone knows how to poison a dragon, it’ll be her.”

            Esbern was much shrunken from his days as a Blade. Korli received him in the Jarl’s sitting room upstairs, away from curious eyes, with Ingun, Unmid, Brynjolf and Mjoll. “Get some food and drink, please,” she told the servant. “It’s going to be a long night.”

            “Yes, my Jarl.” The woman disappeared and Korli turned her attention to her childhood tutor. “Do you remember me, Esbern?”

            “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “Jarl of the Rift?”

            “It wasn’t _my_ idea,” she said dryly. “What did Brynjolf tell you?”

            “Not much.” Esbern glowered at the Thief.

            “Then I won’t beat around the bush. A dragon was seen over the Rift today, snacking on the Orcs of Largashbur. Given High King Torygg’s recent death, I can only make one assumption: that we live in the time of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn,” Korli explained quietly. “You were the only Blade who prepared for this day.”

            “Prophecy isn’t certainty, Callaina,” he replied quietly. “It’s only hope.”

            “Well, I won’t give up hope until I’m choking Alduin because I won’t fit in his throat properly,” Korli said calmly. “I want you to share everything you know about killing dragons with Brynjolf and Mjoll. Ingun tells me that poisoning them usually isn’t viable, so stuffing a cow full of nightshade and sending it as a snack probably won’t work.”

            “Only the Dragonborn can kill a dragon permanently,” he warned.

            “I’m sure they’ll be along. Until then, I want to make the Rift as extremely unpleasant for the dragons as possible.” Korli steepled her fingers. “Your knowledge will be forwarded to the other Holds in Skyrim. Maybe it’ll give those idiots something to do other than a civil war.”

            “What about the Thalmor?” he asked warily.

            “Fuck them,” she said bluntly. “If Elenwen wants to play, she’s welcome to deal with the Guild.”

            “And the Brotherhood,” Ingun added with a smile.

            “I know nothing of this,” Mjoll said stiffly.

            “Your naivety isn’t _my_ problem,” Ingun said sweetly.

            “Don’t fight,” Korli told them with a sigh. “I don’t need a fight on top of everything else.”

            “It’s not naivety,” Mjoll said to Ingun. “It’s honour. Something you’re not acquainted with.”

            “What’s better? A few hundred idiots fighting it out in a field because two people don’t like each other or the problem resolved with a discreet knife thrust and a tactful assassin?” Ingun countered. “One death is better than hundreds.”

            “The girl has a point,” Esbern noted.

            “Each tactic has its time and place,” Korli said softly. “Just remember, Ingun, it was someone sending in the assassins to murder and soul trap Ulfric Stormcloak that led to this mess.”

            “The soul trapping was excessive,” Ingun conceded.

            “Everything about that was excessive,” Korli said grimly. “Assassination should never be left to the vengeful. They make more messes than they clean up.”

            “You’re preaching to the converted, Korli,” Ingun said with a smile.

            “By the same token, it shouldn’t be the go-to solution for problems either,” Korli said. “If Egil or the Empire want to march into the Rift, I will meet them in open battle if necessary.”

            “’If necessary’?” Esbern asked.

            “I’m not above using traps, ambushes and other dirty tactics to slow their progress.” Korli snapped her fingers. “Somebody contact Sorine Jurard at the College of Winterhold. A couple ballistae would ruin any dragon’s day.”

            “I’ll do it. Rune wants to go up there anyway.” Brynjolf rubbed his bearded chin. “Want the Guild to acquire everything we can on dragons?”

            “Yes, please.” Korli regarded Esbern grimly. “You’re officially here as a loremaster to assist me in dealing with the dragons. Don’t irritate any Imperial or Stormcloak emissaries who come here, and for the love of Kyne, set your oaths as a Blade aside for the moment. You can run off and serve the Dragonborn when they show up, but until then, you’re part of my court.”

            “You would have made a great Grandmaster,” the old man said approvingly.

            “No, I wouldn’t. Grandfather was insane and Father decided to be a member of the Dark Brotherhood until Uncle Irkand killed him. The Blades are dead and buried – and frankly, I think that’s for the best.”

            “Rustem became an assassin? Not Irkand?”

            “No. Uncle Irkand became a Knight of Arkay before retiring to the Companions.” Korli sighed and shook her head. “I want all the old grudges buried, understood?”

            “Understood,” Esbern said reluctantly.

            “Good. So, what’s the best way to deter dragons from eating…?”

            Hopefully, she’d pinned down one loose ballista. Now to prepare the Rift for the dragons.


	4. Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“So, you were at Helgen?”

            “Yes,” Cirroc admitted to the rangy, platinum-haired Jarl of Whiterun. Balgruuf lounged on his throne, still frowning from an argument with his Steward, and his blue eyes were shrewd. He and Ralof bore a strong resemblance. “The Imperials were trying to execute me because of something called the carnificina. Me and Egil got away, and he asked me to warn you.”

            “Egil Dawnbringer was involved with this? Why am I not surprised?” Balgruuf asked grimly.

            “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him,” Cirroc said defensively.

            “If only the dragon had waited an hour or so,” the Dunmer bodyguard said darkly. “We could have ended this foolish war for good.”

            Balgruuf ran a hand down his face with a sigh. “Irileth, send some soldiers to Riverwood.”

            “My Jarl, Falkreath might assume you’ve joined Egil’s side and view that as a provocation,” oozed the Cyrod Steward.

            “Fuck Falkreath,” Balgruuf said bluntly. “We can thank that forested shithole for Sigdrifa and her wretched brood.”

            “Umm, Jarl Balgruuf?” Cirroc said tentatively. “I apparently have a sister who’s the daughter of Sigdrifa.”

            “Oh, of course you do. Rustem Aurelius couldn’t keep his cock in his breeks if you put him in a chastity belt and Sigdrifa whelped too many times for my liking,” Balgruuf said sourly. “Are you really here to warn me about dragons or bring about a little more trouble?”

            Cirroc snorted. “I only warned you because Egil asked me to and I owed him one. Enjoy your burned crops and roasted people.”

            He turned away and was halfway towards the door when Balgruuf said, “Hold!”

            Cirroc turned back and saw the Jarl looking grim. “Your sister is one of three Jarls trying to keep the civil war under control,” he explained. “My people are suffering because of the idiots on both sides and now we’re facing dragons!”

            “And this is my problem because…?”

            “I have a job that will pay you some coin,” Balgruuf said bluntly. “Come, let us speak to Farengar, my court wizard.”

            The portly, sideburned Farengar sent Cirroc back to Riverwood and up a hill to a place called Bleak Falls Barrow for dragon tablet. Cirroc decided that the Nord habit of embalming their dead, turning them into zombies and entombing them for the entertainment of future grave robbers was the sign of a warped sense of humour. If those damn Legionnaires hadn’t taken his nimcha, he would have told the Jarl to go to the Far Shores and worried about getting his father’s naginata back from Egil.

            The golden claw robbed from Lucan in Riverwood turned out to be the key to the tomb’s sanctum. That part wasn’t bad, but the discovery of a zombie that could shout like a dragon did was. Whatever game the gods were playing, it was sadistic, to say the least.

            He’d just beaten the shouting zombie to death with a sword more like a crowbar than a proper blade when the writing on a nearby wall caught his eye. It was jagged and stark, written with some kind of claw, and one of the words was glowing. Curious, Cirroc approached it, and the word sang with power to fill his vision.

            When his head cleared, he shook it. Seeing that dragon had him believing in strange things everywhere he looked.

            Lucan was happy to receive his golden claw back and gave Cirroc a generous amount of coin on top of what he paid for the grave goods looted from the zombies. Cirroc’s mother would be horrified he’d desecrated a Nord grave, but the zombies almost killed him, so it was even in his eyes.

            He was leaving Riverwood for Whiterun when Egil and Ralof appeared. “I thought you were going to Whiterun right away?” the former said.

            “Been there, done that, got sent to find some bloody stone tablet,” Cirroc replied. “I don’t think Balgruuf likes you very much. He absolutely _hates_ Falkreath.”

            “He’s irritated because he can’t gouge us for autumn wheat this year like he usually does,” Egil said, shaking his head. “He’s honourable when the gold goes his way, but when it doesn’t…”

            “I know that kind,” Cirroc agreed. “He and another two Jarls are trying to stop your little civil war.”

            “I know. Our sister’s one of them.” Egil sighed. “The Empire needs to go. They allowed the Forsworn to soul trap my father and grandfather. But Korli’s married to a Reachman and so she refuses to join us.”

            Cirroc shrugged. “If you’re strong enough to hold the Reach, you will. If you’re not, you won’t. The gods will only help us so much.”

            “That’s very Redguard of you,” Ralof noted. “Walk back with us? We’re off to the Whiterun camp.”

            “Sure, why not? I still owe Egil one.”

            They walked down the switchback trail in the gloom of dusk and Cirroc learned a lot more about his sister. His mother would probably like her quite a bit but he could see Egil’s frustration with the woman. “The way I see it,” the Redguard finally said, “Is that if you’re strong enough to win free of the Empire, you will. If you’re not, the Empire’s still strong enough to stand together.”

            “Survival of the fittest?” Egil asked.

            “Not exactly. Talos cheated to take Hammerfell and Sura-HoonDing made him work to keep it. Nothing worth having comes easy, Egil.”

            “Sura-HoonDing?” Ralof asked.

            “He’s our version of Talos. In your language, He was called Cyrus the Restless.” Cirroc smiled a little. “Now and then, He’ll come around to teach the Sword-Saints. I even got to spar with Him once.”

            “Did you win?”

            Cirroc laughed. “Landed on my arse. Does your Talos come around and lend a hand?”

            “No,” Egil admitted sourly.

            “Maybe he should. Your Aedra don’t help out as much as they should.” Cirroc nodded at Dawnbreaker. “Does Meridia help?”

            “On occasion, but she’s more interested in defeating the undead.”

            “If you don’t mind me saying, the Nord custom of embalming your dead is fucked up,” Cirroc said bluntly.

            “I agree. That’s why I’ve passed laws ordering the dead to be cremated.”

            “A Nord with common sense. Wonders never cease.”

            They reached the crossroads. “We’ll leave here,” Egil said. “When you come to Windhelm, I’ll have your father’s spear ready.”

            “I appreciate it. I’m not sure I want to take it back home though. His actions have made things… awkward.” Cirroc clasped the rebel leader’s forearm. “I’ll probably see you around.”

            “You will. Watch the skies, Cirroc.”

            “You too, Egil.”

…

“Companions! A dragon is attacking the western watchtower and the Jarl calls you to arms!”

            “No mention of pay, I see,” Torvar complained to Athis.

            “Balgruuf spend more coin than he has to? Don’t make me laugh,” the Dunmer retorted.

            Irkand slid his arm through the small buckler and tightened its straps with his teeth, cursing Rustem yet again for taking his main hand. Though ambidexterity had been pounded into him from an early age, he’d always preferred his right hand, and now it was gone.

            “Insultin’ your brother won’t change nothing,” Harbinger Farkas growled as he rose to his feet.

            “No, but it makes me feel better for a moment.”

            Farkas shook his head. “You up to takin’ on a dragon?”

            “I’ve lost a hand, not my fighting skill. I can handle it.”

            The big man shrugged. “Okay. Maybe he’ll choke on you and we won’t have to kill him.”

            “See? There’s a silver lining in everything.”

            The dragon had obviously paid a visit to the tower on the horizon. Irkand could see the smoke from here. Irileth had rounded up a few guards and one Redguard in fine leather armour. “Tell me again why I’m here?” the boy demanded.

            “Because you have the most experience of dragons,” Irileth retorted. “I never thought a Sword-Saint would be a coward.”

            “If I kill a dragon, it’ll be for my own glory, not your Jarl’s,” the boy countered.

            “Then think of me as giving you a chance, Cirroc.”

            “And I thought Helgen was bad,” Rustem’s son muttered.

            “Helgen was but the beginning,” Irkand told him. “The dragons have returned-“

            “And blah, blah, blah, prophecy. Yeah, I know,” Cirroc told him flatly. “Hello. I didn’t realise the Companions allowed an assassin who murdered his own brother to join their ranks.”

            Irkand blinked. “How-?”

            “Please. Whatever faults my father had, only an assassin who knew his every move could have gotten past his defences. Thanks for killing Da in my hometown, Uncle. I hope the Empire gave you enough coin for it.”

            “Your father was responsible for a good two dozen deaths as part of the Dark Brotherhood, including people I called friends,” Irkand said harshly.

            “You have some lousy choice in friends.” Cirroc shrugged. “Your Empire likes necromancers over Talos. I mean Talos is an asshole, but he doesn’t soul trap people.”

            “One day, I will need to educate you on the Mantella, boy.” Irkand shielded his eyes with his remaining hand. “Irileth, the dragon’s coming back.”

            “Let’s teach this oversized lizard a lesson,” grated the Dunmer.

            It proved to be a moderately unpleasant battle that involved some casualties among the guards. Irkand found himself envious of Cirroc’s raw physicality. The boy was a match for himself or Rustem in their youths when it came to athletics and their superior in swordcraft. He was a little surprised to see him conjure a blade from nothingness though.

            “So he _is_ a true Sword-Saint,” Irileth remarked as she fired arrow after arrow. “I thought it was a boast.”

            It turned out to be Cirroc’s sword of light that turned the tide. It hacked through dragon flesh like hot steel through butter, leaving smoking wounds. The dragon turned around and tried to bite at him but Cirroc was already diving to the side. Finally, he struck through the head, cutting off the lizard’s muzzle. A gargled sound of despair issued from the beast’s mouth before it burst into flame that became light, spiralling in on Cirroc.

            Irkand wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry.


	5. Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Updates for certain stories will be erratic because things are kinda hellish in my life at the moment, so I’ll be focusing on the lighter, easier-to-write stories. I hope you understand.

 

“Somewhere out there, Sheogorath must be absolutely pissing his pants with laughter.”

            “You mean her,” Matriarch Catriona corrected High King Madanach as they ate a spare meal in the main cavern of the Hag’s End Redoubt. “The Madgoddess is likely to interfere. Her descendant is the Dragonborn.”

            Madanach shrugged calmly. “I have no quarrel with the Redguards unless they decide to pick a fight with me, and much to her detriment among certain Nord factions, Empress Akaviria has kept her word with us. The Madgoddess has, I believe, no reason to meddle in our affairs so long as we keep our end of the bargain.”

            Catriona thought he was being a little too nonchalant. Egil hadn’t been eliminated yet and Arch-Mage Bjarni was not inclined to greet a Reach emissary with any politeness. “I know you had more reason than most to hate Ulfric, as I did Dengeir, but do you think we went too far?”

            The High King sighed. “Maybe. But our people demanded vengeance and damnation for them.”

            “I know.” Catriona heaved a sigh. “I know.”

            Madanach crumbled some goat’s cheese over his grilled leeks. “Esbern Silver-Blood’s in the Rift. I didn’t know he was a loremaster of the Blades.”

            “Neither did I,” Catriona admitted with some surprise. “I’m guessing with the return of the dragons…?”

            “Your granddaughter had him dragged from the sewers and put in her court. Apparently he’s a specialist in dragonlore and Bryn warned us that his wife wouldn’t tolerate interference in her affairs.”

            “She’s your great-grandniece,” Catriona reminded him dryly. “Are the children safe?”

            “Of course. I got a Hag-trained bodyguard into the Keep staff. Bryn probably knows – nothing goes by a Nightingale of Nocturnal – but I don’t know how Korli would react.” Madanach’s expression was sad. “Bryn and Korli’s children might be the only heirs of the royal bloodline to the Reach.”

            “That would irritate some of the anti-Nord clans,” Catriona observed.

            Madanach scowled. “I might wish all the lowlander Nords into the bottom of the deepest sea in Nirn, but I know they aren’t going off. It’s a pity we can’t have them and the Stormcloaks kill each other off-“

            He stopped and then a slow evil grin crossed his features. “Catriona, my dear, I’m going to call a convocation of the clans.”

            Catriona shivered, for when Madanach had that look in his eyes, people died – even Hags and Briarhearts.

            Only the old gods knew who would be sacrificed on the altar of expediency this time around.

…

“I’m glad to see that the new Arch-Mage is a little more open-minded than the last.”

            The Redguard Falion folded his arms and regarded Bjarni soberly. “But I doubt you called me here to take up my post as Conjuration Master again.”

            “No,” Bjarni said bluntly. “I have a Khajiit vampire mage who’s travelled to the Soul Cairn, the daughter of Valerica Volkihar, and impressive resources at my command. I need to know if it’s possible to rescue the soul-trapped from the Cairn. You cure vampirism by paying Molag Bal off with a soul. Could you perform some kind of bait and switch for my father Ulfric and his huscarl Galmar?”

            “I’d need to make some kind of bargain with the Ideal Masters and only a fool does that, because they’re slipperier than Clavicus Vile,” Falion said softly. “Other than that, you’d need to find someone – a Daedric power perhaps – with enough raw strength to be respected, even feared by Molag Bal.”

            “Sure, I’ll just pull one from my arse,” Bjarni said sardonically.

            Falion shrugged. “You could try and make your brother useful by getting him to call on Meridia.”

            “Egil’s busy with the war. Even for Father, he wouldn’t set his desire for Madanach’s head aside.” Bjarni heaved a sigh. “I’m not denying the man had a right to vengeance, but…”

            “To you, it would be excessive. To the Reachman who watched Ulfric murder his children and desecrate his holy sites, it would be perfect justice by denying him Sovngarde,” Falion said quietly.

            “You don’t fucking think I don’t know that?” Bjarni asked. “My sister’s Reacher husband said much the same thing.”

            “As Arch-Mage, you need to consider the effects of your actions,” Falion continued. “The Reach shamans and Hags are some of the finest mages in Tamriel. I suspect that’s why Empress Akaviria reached out to them – because she’s thinking of the next fight with the Thalmor.”

            “What are you saying?”

            “This is just the prelude to the war with the blackcoats.” Falion’s voice was low and urgent. “There’s the dragons to think about too, but remember Ancano’s attempts at unravelling the world. We’ll need the Reachfolk to save reality itself.”

            Bjarni’s response was pungent, obscene and profane.

…

“Empress Akaviria?”

            Ria was walking along the curtain wall of Solitude with General Tullius when a raven came out of nowhere, landed before her and transformed into the tall, raw-boned form of Catriona.

            “Matriarch,” she greeted, waving the General down. “What brings you here?”

            “Expediency,” the Hagraven said bluntly. “I… think we went a little too far with Ulfric and Galmar in soul trapping them. I know it’s won Egil allies among the moderates.”

            “Does your king know you’re here?” Tullius demanded.

            “Yes.” Catriona’s twisted features seemed sincere. “He’s willing to give you some of our best Hags and warriors as shock troops against the Stormcloaks. They’re from the anti-Nord clans, so…”

            “You’re willing to turn your people into sword-fodder?” Tullius asked, aghast.

            “My political enemies who have repeatedly tried to murder me over the past thirty years,” the Hagraven corrected dryly. “They want to kill Nords, you have Nord enemies who need killing, and maybe the fanatics will do us all a favour and kill each other so the rest of us can live in peace.”

            Ria pursed her lips. “Officially, I can’t approve of this.”

            “Officially?” Tullius asked.

            “Unofficially, if a bunch of Reachfolk want to raid the Old Holds, I can’t do anything about it unless they return to the Imperial fold,” Ria told him.

            Then she gave Catriona a hard look. “No soul trapping, understand?”

            The Hagraven smiled. “There will be none, I promise on my name and that of Hircine.”

            “Good.” Ria sighed. “If they try to kill any of my people, their lives are forfeit.”

            “Understood.”

            “Then go.”

            The Hagraven bowed and became a bird once more.

            When she went to bed, her dreams were full of her fellow Companions looking at her with judgement in their eyes, Kodlak the worst of all.


	6. Kindred Tangles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The news that the Dragonborn was a Redguard Sword-Saint and son of the Emperor’s murderer spread like wildfire throughout Skyrim. When it reached Riften, Jarl Korli buried her face in her hands in front of her entire court and said, “Of course. The situation wasn’t already complicated enough.”

            Her second action was to arrange a courier relay to Ivarstead, where the Dragonborn would have to pass through on his way to High Hrothgar, and be prepared to ride out day or night. This half-brother of hers had no idea what kind of spark he was to the political shitstorm that was Skyrim. No doubt Balgruuf would educate him swiftly enough. Korli made a bet with Mjoll that he’d make the Dragonborn a Thane.

            In the meanwhile, she focused on the duties of a Jarl and the needs of late summer. While not the breadbasket Whiterun was, the Rift provided a lot of the produce of the Old Holds, and a few things unique to themselves. With Dunmer coming over the Velothi Mountains and settling down, there was a burgeoning pork trade Korli wanted to make a mainstay of the Hold to rival Balgruuf’s beef industry.

            Gillam and Kanda were growing well. Korli still breast-fed the twins with the wet nurse as a backup. Even though she’d become Jarl against her will, she wouldn’t change her life if it meant the babes wouldn’t exist.

            She’d just fed Kanda when Iona knocked on the door. “We’ve got a message from the Stormcloaks,” the huscarl reported.

            “Coming.” Korli put Kanda back in the crib, straightened her dress, and returned to the Great Hall.

            “Ralof,” Korli said dryly as she took a seat on the Aspen Throne. “What dire consequence of neutrality does my brother threaten today?”

            “I see becoming Jarl’s sharpened your tongue,” the blond Stormcloak said with equal dryness.

            “I’m surrounded by fanatical idiots who are trying to burn down Skyrim before the dragons can.” Korli adjusted her skirts. “What does Egil want?”

            “He sent me to officially inform you that Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir, who I believe is your brother, is the Dragonborn and will be recognised and supported as such by the Stormcloaks,” Ralof answered.

            “The Rift will assist and recognise him too. I already know this, Ralof.” Korli shoved back her hair with both hands. It was hot and she wanted a cool bath.

            “You need to pick a side,” Ralof said softly.

            “Which side do I pick? The one where my uncle served loyally for years or the one where my mother abandoned me or the one where my husband and grandmother come from?” Korli fixed him with a sombre stare. “To be frank, Ralof, the Imperials, the Stormcloaks and the Forsworn are all kinds of horrible from my end. You’ve all had a damned hand in bringing this prophecy to life in our time. I’ve already had two settlements razed because of dragons. Tell me, Ralof, which particular member of my family should I support to the detriment of all others?”

            “One side are necromancers and another side supported them,” Ralof said quietly. “Ulfric and Galmar were soul trapped and denied Sovngarde!”

            “Ulfric and Galmar oversaw atrocities in the Reach. I don’t agree with the soul trapping but by the gods, I can’t fault the Forsworn for wanting vengeance. As for Akaviria, that’s her problem who she chooses to be allies with.”

            Korli leaned forward, hands on her knees. “At the moment, I don’t give a damn who rules, because I’ve got about five fucking dragons in my territory to worry about, okay?”

            “I’ll pass that on to Egil,” Ralof said quietly.

            “Do that.” Korli lifted her gaze to see Unmid striding into the Great Hall. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

            “You’re not going to believe this, Korli,” Unmid said softly, glancing in Ralof’s direction. “The Dragonborn’s in Riften as a representative of Jarl Balgruuf.”

            “Tell Mjoll she owes me fifty septims,” Korli told him, pinching her nose. She wasn’t ready. But who was?

            The Dragonborn turned out to be staying at the Bee and Barb, having rebuffed Haelga’s increasingly unsubtle offers harshly to the point where his huscarl Lydia (of course) had to physically threaten her with violence. He was leaner than Irkand or her father, the only sign of his Aurelii heritage the beaky nose, and his Alik’r chainmail was well-worn. Interestingly, he only wore a slender curved sword and no other weapons.

            “Jarl Korli,” he greeted, rising to his feet. His voice was light, almost boyish, but his brown eyes were too old.

            “Cirroc Ansei,” she greeted in reply. “I was expecting you to go to Ivarstead first.”

            “Word got to me a loremaster lived in Riften who knew about dragons.” Cirroc sighed. “I didn’t ask for this but the gods do like to make my life interesting.”

            “To hear the priests tell it, the divine politicking must have been interesting,” Korli said wryly. “At the very least, the Redguard gods, Akatosh, Kynareth and our ancestress the Madgoddess would be involved.”

            “My allegiance is to the Yokudan gods. No disrespect to your gods, but I’m not interested in the civil war unless someone attacks me or Hammerfell’s interests,” Cirroc said bluntly. “Personally, I’m a little more sympathetic to the Stormcloaks, but they need to win their own freedom as Hammerfell did.”

            “That’s something, I suppose.” Korli turned to Unmid. “Can you go find Esbern?”

            “Yes, Jarl Korli.” The warrior saluted and left.

            Korli nodded to Talen-Jei. “Can we get a couple Cliff Racers? I think I’m going to need something stronger than mead.”

…

Cirroc was still trying to get his head around being a noble with diplomatic immunity in Skyrim. Balgruuf had sent his young attractive niece along as a bodyguard for obvious reasons, but Lydia’s eyes strayed towards women and she seemed relieved Cirroc wasn’t interested. Now he was here with a message for his own sister and a mandate to save the world or it would be eaten by a dragon.

            As his sister ordered a couple strong drinks made from _interesting_ ingredients, he studied her. On the taller side for a Redguard woman, she was dressed in simple clothing of fine wool, her long black hair hanging in a braid down the back. She had the nose though.

            “Korli was the Hold beauty back in Whiterun,” Lydia murmured. “But she married Dagmar’s step-nephew and most considered her lucky because who else would take a landless churl of unknown blood?”

            “Now she’s Jarl of the Rift. I’m guessing this Brynjolf isn’t Dagmar’s step-nephew?”

            Lydia shook her head. “He’s her second husband and now everyone knows the fault lay on Gorran’s side when it came to infertility, a lot of Whiterun’s singles are kicking themselves.”

            “If you’re so curious about me, lad, you could ask.” Uninvited, a lithe redhead with the rosy-fair complexion of a Reachman sat himself at the table. “So you’re the mighty hero of legend destined to go toe-to-toe with the World-Eater. How do you feel about it?”

            “Someone somewhere is laughing,” Cirroc said wryly. “So you’re Brynjolf. I’m guessing you’re a dashing rogue with a slightly shady past.”

            “There’s nothing ‘slightly’ about it,” said a tall carrot-haired woman in armour from another table tartly.

            “Mjoll, my darling, we both serve for Riften’s greater good,” Brynjolf said with a charming grin.

            “You’re a Thief,” Mjoll said bluntly.

            “And you hit people over their heads and take their stuff,” Brynjolf countered. “You’d have made a good bandit, you know.”

            “Can we save the discussion of comparative morality for another time?” Korli asked as she returned to the table.

            “Aye, lass.” The man might be a Thief and probably some kind of con artist, but Cirroc had to admit his features warmed with affection when looking at his sister. “Esbern’s collecting his books and fussing over his robes. The man’s dreadfully excited at meeting a real live Dragonborn.”

            “He’s going to be less excited when he discovers who his grandfather is,” Korli said dryly.

            “Has Esbern ever had an issue with Beroc?” Cirroc asked.

            Korli’s face became infinitely sad and compassionate. “I’m referring to Arius, Cirroc. Esbern was a Blade and Arius Aurelius got them all killed because he wanted to be an Emperor.”

            “Oh. Him.” Cirroc accepted the flagon the Argonian Talen-Jei brought over. “Father never talked about him much. He mentioned you now and then, but some bastard named Balgeir said you were dead.”

            “Father, among other things, killed my mother’s uncle Balgeir during a parley with the Kreathlings,” Korli said with a sigh. “That’s why I ordered the drinks, Cirroc. Our relatives have left us a pretty mess… and as Dragonborn, you’ll be caught in the tangles.”

            She proceeded to speak and Cirroc was glad of the strong drink. A hero’s life was never easy, but did it have to be this much of a clusterfuck?


	7. Nothing Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Riding towards Ivarstead on a courier relay with a hangover wasn’t Cirroc’s idea of a good time. “What was in those drinks?” he asked Lydia rhetorically as they cantered along the road.

            “I don’t know but they were delicious,” she said with a grin. “Your sister’s always had an eye for alcohol. Did I ever tell you she was married to the best brewer in Whiterun?”

            “Several times.” Cirroc pulled a lozenge made of honey, wheat and blue mountain flower from his pouch and sucked on it, hoping to ease his headache. “She’s a good Jarl, isn’t she?”

            “Yes,” the huscarl confirmed. “Whiterun is now realising what it’s lost when she left the Hold after her divorce.”

            They changed horses twice more and made it to Ivarstead by sunset. The Vilemyr Inn was neat and cosy, which in Skyrim meant the rats kept to themselves and the fleas were few, and they were able to hire a room for a handful of septims. The other room was hired by a rangy blond in Stormcloak blue who Cirroc remembered from Helgen. “Dragonborn,” Rollo (or whatever his name was) greeted with a smile. “How’s saving the world going?”

            “Tediously,” Cirroc said with a sigh. “How’s overthrowing the Empire going?”

            “Much the same. With the Jarls of the Rift, Hjaalmarch and Whiterun cockblocking the Moot, we can do nothing.” The Stormcloak sighed. “Your sister’s made it clear that she’s not picking a side.”

            “She’s in a bad situation,” Cirroc pointed out. “No matter who she supports, she’s going to betray kin.”

            “I understand that.” Rollof handed over some coins for another mug of mead. No, it couldn’t be Rollof. “But the Empire supported a bunch of Daedra-worshipping necromancers.”

            “Who happen to be related to her husband,” Cirroc reminded him. “It’s an ugly mess, one my family made worse.”

            They sat down at Rilof’s table. “I’m personally sympathetic towards the Stormcloaks,” Cirroc continued. “Politically, I have to be neutral, because there’s dragons all over Skyrim – and Hammerfell’s waiting to see what you’ll do to prove yourself. Nothing worthwhile comes for free.”

            “I understand.” Rillif drank some mead. “Off to High Hrothgar?”

            “Yep.” Cirroc was relieved to change the subject. “All seven thousand steps.”

            “There’s trolls and wolves on the heights,” Rolof advised. “Even stopping at the ten shrines of Kyne won’t stop them from attacking you, but you should do it anyway. Best to honour the Mother of Men on Her mountain.”

            “It goes without saying,” Lydia said softly. “So what brings you to Ivarstead?”

            “I’m passing through,” Rollof said quietly. “Don’t worry, we’re not invading Whiterun this week.”

            Cirroc sighed. “Would Egil be open to a truce? I’m sympathetic but I can’t be looking over my shoulder for a Legion patrol because I had a friendly chat with some Stormcloaks. The dragons need to take priority.”

            “He might, but it would take some powerful assurances, and it would need to be held at High Hrothgar,” Rolof said. “Nowhere else would be safe for him.”

            “Do the monks meddle in politics?”

            “No, but they’re powerful enough to Shout down entire armies.” Rolof’s smile was wry. “It would keep things… civil.”

            “Then I’ll ask them.” Cirroc pinched the bridge of his nose. “The tales never mention the politics.”

            “Of course not,” Rillif said dryly. “They wouldn’t be tales then. They’d be histories.”

…

The Dragonborn, his great-grandson, was a whip-wiry youth with sepia-bronze skin, close-cropped black hair and the Aurelii nose in a broad, round Redguard face. His pupils reflected the light of the braziers with red-green flashes and his grace was the lazy amble of a sabrecat on the prowl. Arngeir waited, hands in sleeves, as he bowed to the other Greybeards with a politeness that pleased their speaker. There was pride and a desire to dominate in Cirroc’s nature, but it was wrapped around the discipline of a Sword-Saint and the will to succeed, not a desire to rule and conquer. Akatosh had chosen well in this young man.

            “So, at the turning of the Ages a Dragonborn has come to High Hrothgar to learn the use of his power,” Arngeir said formally. “Come, Dragonborn, let us taste of your Voice.”

            Some Dovahkiinne would argue the power of the Thu’um would destroy an old withered man like Arngeir. Not Cirroc. He opened his mouth and Shouted ‘Fus!’ sharply, driving Wulfgar to his knees. His training as a warrior-monk served them all well.

            The chronicles had been specific on how swift the Dragonborn would learn the ways of the Thu’um and Arngeir wasn’t disappointed with Cirroc’s speed. He learned the second Word of Unrelenting Force and then the first Word of Whirlwind Sprint, moving with the force of wind in the courtyard. As the day darkened to dusk, he was brought back inside where his huscarl waited. They would stay the night before leaving in the morning.

            It was over a spare meal of flatbread, snowberry jam and dried fish from Ivarstead that Cirroc broached the idea of a truce. “I’m technically a fugitive from the Legion,” he said bluntly. “I need to sit both sides of the war down and have them talk it out. I’ll settle for a truce until Alduin’s dead because I could return to Hammerfell and let them fight it out. But I can’t dodge Legionnaires forever and Rolof-“

            “Ralof,” his huscarl corrected.

            “Rillif says Egil wouldn’t go to anywhere but High Hrothgar for a meeting,” Cirroc finished.

            “You would bring blood-soaked butchers to this place of sanctity and peace?” Arngeir said with a raised eyebrow. “Why don’t you bring a Blade or two?”

            “If it’s Esbern, I probably will,” he replied calmly. “He’s willing to be civil if you are and it’ll take everyone to help me find a way to save the world.”

            “The Blades will guide you from the path of wisdom,” Arngeir warned him severely. “They would make you a new Dragonborn emperor, a new Tiber Septim.”

            “What the Blades want and what the Blades get are two different things,” Cirroc retorted. “My sister Callaina made it clear to Esbern that so far as she was concerned, the Blades were dead, and the defeat of the dragons took precedence over factional politics. I don’t desire secular power. I’m a Sword-Saint, not the reincarnation of fucking Talos.”

            _“We should,”_ Wulfgar signed. _“Perhaps peace will come of it.”_

 _“Not likely,”_ Einarth observed. _“Egil’s his father’s son when it comes to muleheadedness.”_

 _“We must stop Alduin or Paarthurnax will be the first to die,”_ Borri noted.

            “You may put the question forth to all sides and if they agree, we will host the meeting,” Arngeir agreed sourly. “I doubt anything will come of it, but we must try.”

            “Get your sister to arrange everything,” Lydia told Cirroc. “Between them, she, Idgrod and Balgruuf control Skyrim’s food supply. If they don’t want to starve…”

            “I think the Legion will be harder to persuade than anyone else,” Cirroc said, drinking some water. “But we’ll see how it goes.”

            Arngeir wasn’t optimistic. “Do not forget you must retrieve the Horn of Yurgen Windcaller,” he reminded Cirroc.

            “Of course.” Cirroc sighed and knuckled his eyes. “The hero has to undergo a lot of tests, but Skyrim’s been absolutely ridiculous.”

            “Nothing worthwhile is easy to obtain,” Arngeir said gravely. “Believe me, I know.”


	8. In Windhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Yes, I’m playing merry hell with the main questline. I don’t care. Trigger warnings for violence and mentions of genocide.

 

When Cirroc returned to Riften and told her of his plan to build a truce between Legion and Stormcloak, Korli folded her arms and regarded him with frank blue-green eyes. “Balgruuf and Idgrod will agree immediately,” she said. “But you’ll need to convince Egil, Elisif and General Tullius yourself. They won’t listen to me.”

            So Cirroc found himself on another horse, the long-suffering Lydia in tow, and crossing the volcanic tundra they called the Aalto. There was a dragon roosting on the big hill overlooking a giant’s camp. It was sleeping so he decided to leave it alone. He’d learned more about dragons at High Hrothgar and… they were kin in a way.

            His first impression of Windhelm was… bleak. Surrounded by permafrost and built from granite, it was a blocky unlovely city. Whiterun was beautiful and while Riften wasn’t pretty, at least it was warm. This place was something else entirely.

            “It was built in Ysgramor’s grief and rage after Saarthal,” Lydia said quietly. “It’s said that the mortar was ground from the bones of snow elves the Five Hundred Companions slew in Yngol’s memory.”

            “Saarthal?” Cirroc asked as he dismounted, patting his sweating horse on the neck.

            “The first Atmoran settlement. The snow elves killed nearly everyone there. If Arch-Mage Bjarni’s right, something called the Eye of Magnus had something to do with it. Ysgramor sailed back to Atmora and brought back an army.” She nodded to a burial mound located on the shore. “Yngol’s Barrow. It’s said the sea-ghosts drove him to drown in the sea, condemning him to their ranks. Even Ysgramor couldn’t save him but his wrath convinced the sea-ghosts to show him where the body lay.”

            “I’ve heard the Companions call themselves the ‘heirs of Ysgramor’,” Cirroc observed as they walked the horses to the stable.

            “Ysgramor was the only leader the Companions had, but the traditions of the Five Hundred continue in Jorrvaskr. To answer to no master but themselves, to heed only the honour of their actions, and to protect Skyrim with the cold steel of the Nords.” Lydia sighed. “They hold themselves and others to what Nords define as honour, no matter their race.”

            “I can respect that.”

            An Altmer came out and took their horses. Cirroc tossed him a pouch of coin that he caught deftly. “Take care of them. They’ve had a long fast ride.”

            “I can tell.” The mer led the horses into stalls and Cirroc climbed the stairs to the bridge.

            Two guards stood by the massive metal gates to Windhelm. “What’s your business here?” one demanded.

            “My name is Cirroc and this is my huscarl Lydia. We’re here to speak to Jarl Egil.”

            “Egil doesn’t meet with foreigners,” the rude guard said flatly.

            Cirroc smiled. “He’ll meet with us. I’m a Thane of Whiterun.”

            The other guard guffawed. “Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen of High Rock!”

            “Well, Your Majesty, I’m sorry you’ve been exiled from the glittering courts of the Bretons,” Cirroc replied with a wolfish smile. “Now open the gates or I will. And I bet you won’t enjoy explaining to Jarl Egil how the gates got ripped off their hinges with the power of the Thu’um.”

            The guard laughed harder. “Pull the other leg, Redguard! The Dragonborn is a true Nord!”

            “I always thought the rampant stupidity and ignorance of the average Eastmarcher was a myth,” Lydia observed sarcastically. “How sad to see it proven otherwise.”

            “Why you arrogant-!” The first guard didn’t get far because Cirroc took a deep breath and Shouted “BEX!”, the Word blasting the gates open with a rusty shriek. It landed both guards on their arses.

            Cirroc entered Windhelm with a grinning Lydia.

            Just inside the gate, a pair of loutish Nords were staring at him with dropped jaws, the Dunmer woman they’d been harassing smirking. “Nice entrance,” she said.

            “Thanks. Where’s Egil?”

            She pointed ahead. “In the Palace of the Kings. Go straight until you meet the double-doors.”

            “We’ve certainly made an impression,” Lydia said lightly as they walked towards the Palace.

            “Good. Egil’s not so bad but some of his people are arseholes.”

            Two more guards stood at the double doors leading into the Palace. “Dragonborn!” one saluted. “I’m Helga. I saw you at Helgen.”

            “Nice to meet you again, Helga. Is Jarl Egil holding audiences?” Cirroc twitched his Alik’r robe to make it a little less crumpled.

            “We’ve orders to cooperate with you and admit you at any time,” Helga answered, opening the door.

            “The guards at the gates didn’t get the message. I had to open the gates myself. They might have a broken bone or two.”

            Helga grimaced. “I’ll speak to Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced. He’s responsible for city security.”

            “Thanks.” They entered the Palace.

            “Why do Nords have such melodramatic surnames?” Cirroc asked Lydia under his breath.

            “Sometimes it’s an honour-name received for a great act and other times just a description. Your sister’s called ‘Clever-Hands’ because of her skill at weaving and sewing whereas Jarl Egil’s called ‘Dawnbringer’ because he wields the Daedric blade called Dawnbreaker and helped defeat a clan of evil vampires trying to turn the sun to blood.”

            “Ah.” Cirroc took a look around at the Great Hall. The place was dominated by a stone throne with two braziers, hung with various banners, and surprisingly warm despite its cold cavernous appearance. “Have the Nords ever heard of ‘elegant yet understated’?”

            “Uncle Balgruuf has,” Lydia said dryly. “The Eastmarchers tend to go for ‘big and barbaric’.”

            “The Hall was built to fit in all five hundred of Ysgramor’s Companions,” remarked a white-haired woman in strange armour that looked like pieces of metal carved with bears. “So you’re Cirroc Dragonborn.”

            “So the Greybeards tell me.” Cirroc bowed slightly. “I’m guessing you’re Njada Stonearm.”

            “Yes. I used to train with the Companions until everything went to hell.” Njada sighed and shook her head. “Egil’s up in his study. He got a pigeon from his sister today.”

            “Yeah, we need to do something about a truce. I can’t kill dragons if you lot are killing each other,” Cirroc admitted.

            “Bjarni said this might happen.” Njada led them through a war room and up some stairs to a maze of corridors which ended in a snug little room deep in the Palace. It was furnished with old battered furniture and two very big sable-haired men dominated the place.

            “The bigger one’s Bjarni,” Lydia murmured in his ear.

            At first glance, Bjarni wasn’t what Cirroc thought of when he heard the word ‘Arch-Mage’. He was bigger than any Nord Cirroc had met but for the Hero-Twin Farkas, wore chainmail, and had an axe that looked like chipped blue ice on his hip. His brown-speckled aqua eyes glittered with humour and intelligence.

            “Cirroc,” greeted Egil, who’d risen to his feet on their entrance. “Lydia.”

            “Egil,” was his reply. “I’m guessing our sister sent word ahead.”

            “She did,” Egil confirmed. “I’m surprised the Greybeards agreed to it.”

            “I suspect they don’t want the world to end,” Bjarni rumbled. “The dragons’ effects on the earthbones is… interesting.”

            “I’m trying to get it sorted out,” Cirroc said. “But I need a truce. Once I’m done talking to you, I’ll be off to Solitude to talk the Imperials into agreeing.”

            “Ria, for all her flaws, will probably agree,” Njada said softly. “I personally think she only stuck to that bargain with the damned Reachfolk out of a sense of honour, not because she approved of their actions.”

            “She chose to align herself with a group of necromancers who soul-trapped three men out of malice,” Egil said grimly. “How is that honourable?”

            “From a Cyrod point of view, keeping the bargain she made and minimising waste of lives,” Njada said with a sigh. “It’s like why Korli won’t get involved. She’ll tangle with kin no matter which side she chooses.”

            “Loyalty is a virtue but it can be turned into a vice,” Egil observed. “So, a truce with the Legion? Is it feasible, Njada?”

            “If they agree, yes,” the white-haired woman immediately replied. “Akaviria will probably push for it. Dragons will destroy us all.”

            “You know my thoughts,” Bjarni rumbled. “The only ones who gain from a protracted civil war are the Thalmor.”

            “Hammerfell has plans no matter the outcome,” Cirroc admitted. “A united Empire brings its own pros and cons, whereas a free Skyrim brings another set.”

            “I understand Hammerfell’s position. We must prove ourselves before we receive their respect.” Egil managed a thin smile. “Do you still sympathise with us, Cirroc?”

            “A little. I’m from Elinhir and the Reachfolk…” Cirroc shuddered.

            “But the Forsworn were built out of Da’s massacres of the Reachfolk and Talos’ conquering of the Reach,” Bjarni noted. “There are no clean hands in this mess.”

            “We haven’t soul-trapped anyone. Those who engage in necromancy must be destroyed,” Egil said implacably. “I don’t care if they’re ‘kin’.”

            Cirroc could sympathise with that. “So if we can talk the Legion into it, you’ll come to High Hrothgar?”

            “Of course.” Egil’s icy aqua eyes glittered. “There will be no quarter for the Reachfolk until every last one of their Hags and Briarhearts are dead though. The commons will thank me for it when they realise what I’ve saved them from.”

            It was then Cirroc realised that Egil didn’t have a damn clue about human nature.


	9. Circles and Cycles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Ria stood on the wall of Castle Dour and looked across the icy blue seas towards High Rock. “Any word from Catriona?” she asked over her shoulder as she heard measured steps. Tullius was due for their daily conference.

            “None, Empress,” Tullius said gruffly. “The Dragonborn has come to visit us.”

            Ria spun around to see the General accompanied by Lydia from Whiterun and a whip-lean Redguard with a sepia-toned complexion and the Aurelii’s redoubtable Colovian nose. Even in the light of sunset, his pupils reflected red-green like a predator, and there was a peculiar scent of spices around him. “You must be…” She took a moment to wrack her brains for the Aurelii’s complicated genealogy. “Cirroc?”

            “Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir,” the young man confirmed in a Yokudan-accented version of Irkand’s smooth tenor.

            “You should bow to the Empress,” Tullius grated.

            “Hammerfell isn’t under the authority of the Empire anymore,” Cirroc responded mildly. “And not to put too fine a point on it, General, I’m the most important man in the province until Alduin’s stuffed back to whence he came and possibly afterwards, if certain winds from the Aldmeri Dominion continue to blow as they’ve been for the past few months.”

            “If anyone can address me as an equal, Tullius, it’s the Dragonborn,” Ria told the stocky West Weald man. “Particularly since his being an Aurelii might confirm certain claims of Arius Aurelius that were once thought false.”

            “That, Akaviria, is a sword I’m saving for the greatest need,” Cirroc said simply. “I’m a Sword-Saint of the First Rank, an Ansei of the Ra Gada. I’ve no desire for dominion over land and people. I’m not Talos.”

            “How do you define ‘the greatest need’?” Tullius asked.

            “The refusal of the Legion, the Forsworn and the Stormcloaks to make a truce that will allow me to focus on the dragons instead of dodging soldiers,” Cirroc said bluntly. “Drawing the Sword of the Septims in public would be the act of last resort as it would be a direct ‘fuck you’ to the Thalmor.”

            “In public?” Ria asked.

            Cirroc grinned. “A Sword-Saint never reveals his secrets.”

            “So you’re telling me you want us to agree to a truce?” Tullius asked flatly. “How do we know-?”

            “Egil’s already agreed and the Greybeards will host it at High Hrothgar. After Solitude, I’ll be going to Markarth to speak to Madanach, then back to Arngeir at High Hrothgar to arrange everything,” Cirroc responded calmly.

            Ria thought of the secret plans with Catriona, the Forsworn being smuggled to deal with the Stormcloaks, and wondered if it was too late to call it off.

            “If you can persuade both Madanach and Egil to come to the party, we will,” she said aloud.

…

Catriona was standing to the side of the Mournful Throne in Markarth when an unassuming Redguard accompanied by a dark-haired Nord woman entered Understone Keep. He was dressed in comfortable, well-worn Alik’r chainmail with one of their legendary curved swords at his waist. When she met his eyes, the raven aspect of Hircine flinched – the red-green flash of a predator stared back. When she invoked her other-sight, a coiled bronze dragon with blood-red eyes was trapped within his lean frame.

            “The Dragonborn comes,” she murmured to Madanach.

            “Just as Bryn and Akaviria warned us,” the High King replied. “Have faith in me, Hag.”

            “I always have.”

            She stepped from the shadows in her full semblance of the Hag, the feathers lining her limbs and the claws clacking against stone. His Nord bodyguard’s hand almost went to her sword but at a minute gesture from him it fell back to her side.

            “Dragonborn,” Madanach observed in a deceptively lazy tone. “What brings you to the Reach?”

            “A truce between you, Egil and the Legion until Alduin is bound and banished,” the Dragonborn replied bluntly. “The meeting would be held at High Hrothgar.”

            “Why would we want to be in a holy place of the Nords where Egil could kill us readily?” Madanach asked dryly.

            “Because the Greybeards would Shout him arse over head if he tried, the neutral Jarls would be there, and you could possibly discuss ways to free Ulfric from the Soul Cairn with Arch-Mage Bjarni,” was the boy’s cool answer. “Akaviria recognises you because of her honour but you lost the moderate Jarls when you soul-trapped Ulfric. Wasn’t killing him enough?”

            “I lost half my family to Ulfric, the Stormsword and the Stone-Fist,” Madanach said flatly.

            “Yes, and my uncle killed my father, who killed Titus Mede, who had my grandfather killed, who was betrayed by Dengeir of Falkreath, who got soul-trapped by you because he sent his daughter to become a Shieldmaiden of Talos, who abandoned my sister, who told me this whole fucking ridiculous saga that should have ended two generations ago,” Cirroc answered with a roll of his eyes. “I could keep on going back to Talos, but we don’t have all day.”

            The High King chuckled grimly. “The terrible tale of the Aurelii does sound rather tawdry when you put it like that, doesn’t it?”

            “Cycles of revenge and rebellion ensured the end of Yokuda-that-was,” the boy said calmly. “Do you think that Egil’s death will end the one between you and the sons of Ulfric, or will it be passed on to Bjarni and his daughter Bjarka? That could be awkward because House Telvanni would get involved, which would drag in House Redoran, and before you know it half of Tamriel is getting ready to stomp the Reach into the ground, the remnants of the Empire would be trying to defend you, and the only ones laughing are the Thalmor.”

            “Egil is talking about destroying the Reach’s culture,” Madanach said soberly.

            “And you soul-trapped his Da. We can justify ourselves in circles all day or we can realise there’s bigger things at stake.” The Dragonborn folded his arms. “I only see the possibilities that arise from your lack of attendance, Madanach. I can’t see anything going forward from the arrival of everyone at High Hrothgar. If it’s any consolation, the Blades and the Thalmor will invite themselves.”

            “Maybe the fanatics will kill each other off,” Catriona noted hopefully.

            The boy looked in her direction. “I’m guessing you’re Catriona.”

            “I am. Do you have a name or do we just call you Dragonborn?”

            “Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir. Korli and Bryn told me about you.”

            Catriona raised an eyebrow. “How are they and the children?”

            “Good, though stressed because Korli’s trying to stop eastern Skyrim from imploding,” Cirroc said dryly. “My sister’s in a very awkward position thanks to the extended family.”

            Catriona rather thought Cirroc’s view of the political situation was flavoured by Korli’s disgust and exasperation. “We didn’t mean to put her there. If we’d known-“

            “’The battle fought in hindsight is always won’,” Cirroc said, quoting from the Book of Circles. “You helped make this mess. You damned well help fix it.”

            “If we don’t?” Madanach asked with narrowed eyes.

            Cirroc reached into his wide sleeve and pulled out a parchment sealed with the Imperial Dragon. “Then you have broken the agreement with Akaviria that guarantees your kingdom’s autonomy by disobeying a direct order from the Empress.”

            “Damned Cyrods,” Madanach said sourly. “Fine, we’ll come.”

            The Dragonborn inclined his head. “Thank you very much.”


	10. To Be Rewritten

So, I'm on summer holidays and have been rereading the Tales of the Aurelii, and have decided to take on the task of rewriting them. I will be leaving the old series up for posterity and focusing on Spark, The Pattern in the Steel, and A Tale of Shadows until late November, and getting back to The Tales of the Aurelii later. I haven't forgotten Doe either - but as a fairly intense political drama inspired by Game of Thrones, I need to be in a particular mindset, and it's hitting too close to home with Australian politics at the moment. Thank you for reading and bearing with me.

**Author's Note:**

> Arngeir decided he was Julius Martin, okay? Blame my muse for the fustercluck.


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